


Pain Management

by gilead



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, Light Angst, they fall in love and nobody dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:48:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23917798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gilead/pseuds/gilead
Summary: In an alternate universe, Darcy Lewis is the team physiotherapist.It’s a great job. Natasha Romanoff walks in.
Relationships: Darcy Lewis/Natasha Romanov
Comments: 10
Kudos: 175





	Pain Management

Darcy can understand why there aren’t a lot of staff on retainer for the Avengers.

Doctor? Sure.

Lawyer? A team of them.

Private chef? Six have quit. They get the occasional caterer.

Nutritionist? Laid off after Tony realizes how health-conscious a team of constantly mortally endangered superheroes is.

Janitor? There’s at least one Roomba with lasers. She’s had to ask Tony not to let it in the gym while she’s working.

Physiotherapist? Mandatory.

First, Jane introduces her to Tony. She gets three interviews, her fingerprints done, pees into a cup, and lets go to voicemail calls from dozens of people she hasn’t spoken to in years asking her if she’s working for Tony Stark now and that they put in a good word for her and how much she’s missed and appreciated and when she will visit.

She helps Tony with having his pecs rearranged by an arc reactor, and Pepper with her desk-related shoulder and neck pain. Tony hands her a credit card and points to an empty corner his gym. His gym has a cold and a hot pool, boxing ring, tennis court, indoor track, and maybe a waterfall, but she’s not allowed to say. She’s signed an eighty-page contract. But job security is rather excellent for Darcy these days.

She helps Clint with his archer’s elbow. Steve with lingering stiffness and lack of flexibility. Bruce with, well, everything. He’s a tense man. And she tries pretty hard to do it herself, but she eventually has to teach Thor how to roll out a knot in his glute.

It’s a great job. She’s well compensated. She’s very professional. Very good at her job. Natasha Romanoff walks in.

“One of my hips is higher than the other,” she says, perching on the side of Darcy’s desk. “Barton’s still being a big baby about his mobility exercises?”

Darcy snatches her paperwork away from the woman with a deeply offended gasp. “You can’t just come in here and read over my shoulder! Patient confidentiality!”

Natasha is rather really beautiful. Nice green eyes. Shiny hair. Well-developed quadriceps. Stupid smirk. “Why haven’t I seen you before?” Darcy asks, confused.

“Haven’t needed you,” Natasha shrugs.

“Everyone else has,” Darcy says, narrowing her eyes suspiciously. “Anyway, what’s that about your hip?”

“My left hip,” Natasha says, tapping the aforementioned body part, “is higher than my right hip.” She taps the other aforementioned body part. Now her hands are on her hips, and she’s staring at Darcy. Darcy squints. She puts on her glasses.

“Okay, can you stand in front of the mirror here?”

Natasha responds to her gesturing gamely, sliding leisurely off Darcy’s desk and strolling up to the closest mirror.

“You can relax.” Darcy waits. “No really. Relax.”

“I am relaxed.” There’s an edge to Natasha’s voice. Her left hip hikes up another sixteenth of an inch.

Suddenly, Darcy understands. She changes her strategy. “Right, just stand normally. Close your eyes. Let your arms hang. You don’t have to be perfect.”

Natasha eyes her mistrustfully in the mirror. Darcy remembers that the Avengers have always been particularly unique clients. She’s already worked through everyone else’s particular needs, except for one.

“Look, I know you don’t know me. Yet. So let me tell you a little bit about my practice. The foundation of my therapeutic relationships is respect and trust. I have a duty of care to you, and that’s to act in your best interest. That also means I’m always going to explain what I’m going to do in plain terms, before I do it, so you can give your informed consent.” Darcy stops to let Natasha process for a moment. She takes another deep breath. “I know I have access to private information and you rely on me for care. There’s a power imbalance between physio and patient that I work very hard to equalize—”

“Darcy,” Natasha says, very seriously. “If you or anybody crosses a line with me, I will snap their arms off like a lego.” 

“That’s comforting,” replies Darcy. “Okay, we’ll work with that. I’m going to guide you through a standing awareness exercise. We’ll work up from your feet and I want you to focus on each part of your body as we go. Don’t change anything, just be in your body, and feel what it’s feeling. Close your eyes.”

This time, Natasha complies. Darcy puts on her soothing therapy voice. It’s second nature at this point, a tape in her head that’s been rewound and played a hundred times.

“Think about how your feet feel on the floor, how you’re distributing your weight. Are putting more weight on one foot? Are you on the balls or the heels of your feet?”

Natasha is incredibly good at staying still. They work their way up from feet to knees to hips to shoulders to head, and it’s a long time to be looking at somebody who looks like Natasha.

“Open your eyes. Tell me what you noticed,” Darcy finishes, ready with the clipboard that she sneakily retrieved halfway through.

“I’m definitely heavier on my right foot,” Natasha discloses slowly. “My right hip’s rotated inwards, and it feels like the left side of my ribcage is being pulled up. It’s also pulling on my shoulder and I can feel the tension all the way up to my neck.”

“You have great proprioception,” Darcy tells Natasha, pen scratching away, “and it looks like you have different patterns of tension on both sides of your body. Which is okay, we’ll work on both sides and release that tension.”

“You can’t just adjust me?”

“Natasha,” Darcy starts, not actually sure if they’re on a first name basis but too committed to the oncoming lecture to care, “you have functional leg length discrepancy. That means that because of the way you’re using your body, you have chronic tightness in muscles in your back, your hip, and your core. But your entire body is like a pulley system. If one part of it is out of alignment, the rest of your body will try to compensate and also become misaligned. Basically, you’re looking at more than just wonky hips over your lifetime if you don’t correct this. Stuff like tendonitis, stress fractures, sciatica, osteoarthritis…”

Natasha stops her with a hand.

“I get the idea.”

“Great! If you hop up on the table I can work on some of that tension, then I’ll teach you some exercises that’ll help you release and balance some of those muscles.”

“Just teach me the exercises,” Natasha says, looking at the padded therapy table and shaking her head.

“That’s not going be as effective but I respect your boundaries,” Darcy nods. She flops onto the mats and lays on her side. “How about you do them with me?”

She teaches Natasha the hip curl, the Iliopsoas release, and hip rotations. Natasha has a little trouble picking up the patterns for releasing the internal rotator, her knee sagging to side and taking the majority of the force.

Darcy winces. “Um, mind if I touch you? Touch can help you identify and feel the muscle you need to target.”

“Fine.”

Darcy reaches out and puts her hand on the outside of Natasha’s thigh. “This is your tensor fascia lata. It and your glute are the main muscles that internally rotate the femur at the hip. Keep your knee inside the crook of your elbow and extend your toes, that’ll help protect your knee when you’re doing this exercise.”

It’s easy to fix Natasha’s form after that, and Darcy’s arms stay firmly attached. It’s a win.

When they’re done and Natasha stands up, she wobbles a little. Looking hard done by, she says, “I feel unbalanced.”

“Well, your brain can lie to you. It made tense your new baseline. Your nervous system makes the movements you tend to repeat automatic over time, natural or unnatural. It doesn’t make judgments about good or bad. You can end up with a feedback loop where your muscles just keep getting the message to stay tight all the time.” Darcy’s given up on written notes altogether, now drawing patchwork anatomical diagrams with arrows in an attempt to keep up. “Why don’t you take a seat? I’m going to give you some homework.”

Darcy is very damn well organized, and it takes only a few clicks through meticulously labelled folders on her laptop to print out sheets of exercises for Natasha and an at-home guide to standing awareness.

“I’ve never had homework in my life.”

“Think of it as a mission for happy hips,” Darcy replies brightly. “I think it’s pretty high priority. All you have to do is homework. Couple times a week. You’ll feel the difference.”

Natasha blinks at her and sinks into the seat. Her sleek, expensive Tony Stark printer silently spitting out pages behind them, Darcy raises her pen over the clipboard expectantly.

“I should’ve done this at the beginning, but I need to take your medical history.”

“Don’t have one.”

“Old injuries? Existing conditions? Medications?”

“No.”

“Uh huh. Well, I have these forms about informed consent, privacy regulations, the usual stuff; there’s this talk I have to give you where I tell you a little bit about me, and—”

“You can skip all that,” Natasha says, signing in the box. “Consider me informed.”

That takes Darcy right to the bottom of her first session procedure list.

“Well, um, do you have any questions?”

“Nope.” Natasha gets up, assigned homework hand-out curled into a tube in her hand. “I can see why the boys like you so much.”

“Oh. Thanks! Happy to help!” Darcy calls after her. She positively doesn’t blush.

\--

“I heard Nat came to see you for the first time,” Clint mentions while doing wrist curls.

“What is with you two?” Darcy exclaims.

“What? What did she say?”

“Nothing, because she is my patient and you are my patient and it would be extremely unprofessional for me to talk about other patients in a session.”

“I guarantee she knows everything you’ve written down about me ever.”

“I keep my files in a locked cabinet and I take my laptop home with me.”

“Yeah, sorry to break it to you, but that’s not gonna stop her.”

“Is she going to read all my notes about her?”

“Definitely. I read some of your notes on me at first. Don’t worry, I stopped,” Clint reassures her, because Darcy is horrified. “Joke’s on Nat, you tell us everything you write down.”

Darcy huffs. “Because my notes are not my diary!”

“Yeah, I think Natasha just likes to be in the know. Comes with the trade. Don’t get your back up over it.”

“Working here is like bizzaro reality physiotherapist nightmare,” Darcy grumps.

“I think you like us,” Clint teases, shaking a dumbbell at her.

Darcy pushes his arm back onto the table. “That’s not the exercise.”

“We’re your favourite patients,” Clint persists impishly.

“No, you’re all the same. You get shot in the butt while on a mission and act like it’s nothing but when it’s time to rehabilitate that butt it’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to you!”

“You get shot and it’s over,” Clint says, “if you don’t die. Doing uncomfortable, boring exercises when you don’t have to multiple times a week, that’s hell.”

“Oh no, you have to, if you want a functional butt.”

“Who got shot in the butt?”

“This hypothetical is getting out of hand,” Darcy says, and hands Clint another set of dumbbells.

\--

So the Avengers love to gossip about each other, go figure.

“Okay,” Darcy says, leaning over whatever super secret thing they are working on in Tony’s super secret lab. “Just stretch. Really stretch, like you just woke up. Harder. Cracking noises are good.”

Bruce unglues himself from the computer screen and stretches up towards the fluorescent lights like a photosynthesizing plant. If he makes any awkward involuntary noises, Darcy doesn’t hear them.

“It’s like a reset button! You feel how relaxed your traps are right now? It can be like that all the time. And if you do that more during the day, you’ll realize how hunched over you are and can correct your posture.”

“I heard we finally sold Natasha on you,” he says.

“Bruce, I thought _you_ were better than this.” Darcy shakes her head at him disappointedly. He actually has the awareness to look ashamed. “Take this updated sheet of exercises. I’m gonna go.”

Darcy’s making her way back when she bumps into Natasha in the stairwell. Stairs are good, but spies are not. She clasps her files to her chest protectively. Natasha gives her a look like Darcy’s the strange one.

“Are you free?” Natasha finally asks.

“I’m done for the day, what do you need?”

“I can make an appointment later so you can go home.”

Darcy almost clotheslines Natasha with her files. “No, because none of you remember to make appointments later. Come on.”

They’re making their way upstairs together in silence when Natasha says suddenly, “How’s your day going?”

“Good! I had chicken salad for lunch.”

“That’s nice.”

“What did you have for lunch?”

“Soup.”

Darcy gets the feeling Natasha doesn’t quite understand how the physiotherapist-patient relationship works. It’s not the best conversation Darcy’s ever had, but it’s an excellent start. All in due time. She reaches the empty gym with a spring in her step.

“Come stand next to me in the mirror.”

Natasha complies. Darcy circles her slowly, looking both in the mirror and with her own eyes. “You look brand new!”

“But I still,” Natasha makes a face, “feel it.”

Steepling her fingers together, Darcy takes a fortifying breath. “How long has this been bothering you?”

Natasha’s eyes dart side to side minutely for a few seconds. “I’d just started running missions for SHIELD.” Darcy must’ve reacted when she’s really not supposed to, because Natasha hastens to add, “It hasn’t compromised my performance.”

There’s a guardedness to Natasha that tells Darcy she needs to step carefully. She takes her time thinking about what to say next. She doesn’t actually know that much about Natasha’s past, other than that she’s a bunch of ex-somethings, ex-KGB, ex-assassin, ex-spy, maybe still the last two, no thanks to the one-to-two sentence introduction per Avenger Tony had provided her with.

Still, the sum of Darcy’s experiences tell her this:

“Trauma can be trapped in our bodies as chronic physical pain. Sometimes it can hurt more after an initial release, because after we relax, we’re more in touch with our emotions. But sometimes we judge ourselves for feeling them, or we don’t want to, or it hurts us. We try to suppress it, we tense up, and the pain comes right back.”

A few microexpressions flicker across Natasha’s face, too brief for Darcy to name. “Then it’s just a cycle.”

“But you have a choice. You can trap the pain forever, or you can find a way to release it. I’m really glad you came to see me about this.”

Natasha’s still eyeing herself critically in the mirror. Darcy isn’t technically supposed to be sharing personal stories, but it feels like a critical moment.

“You know, before Tony hired me, I was working with refugees at a non-profit. I had patients that’ve been through traumas like war, torture, imprisonment, loss. It was—yeah, it was tough. I learned a lot. But it wasn’t until I saw a photo of myself in the staff directory that I realized my shoulders were, like, a whole inch higher than when I started.”

“Let me guess, the physiotherapist went to therapy.”

“You bet I went to all the therapy,” Darcy says proudly. “I really had to ramp up my self-care after that. Actually, what do you do to relax?”

“Blow things up,” Natasha says. “Sometimes I steal things.”

“No, you know, like, lower stakes. You’re not worried because nothing can go wrong. Bath bombs, massages, concerts, movie night, shopping?”

“Vodka doesn’t usually go wrong,” Natasha adds.

“Yes, but arts and crafts? Nature photography? ASMR videos? Gardening?”

“Oh, hobbies.”

“Not just hobbies. Relaxing activities,” Darcy emphasizes. “Look, I know I’m just the mean person that makes you do the exercises. But none of you will let a therapist within two blocks of the tower and there are psychological and psychosocial components to pain. The mind and the body are connected. I truly believe in an integrative approach so I’m trying my best here. Without becoming your therapist.”

“I would definitely recommend not becoming my therapist,” Natasha says.

\--

Half an hour before an appointment with Pepper, Darcy’s online shopping when someone crosses the gym, humming and twirling a piece of red licorice.

“Huh, death metal,” Natasha comments, before Darcy can turn it down.

“Progressive death metal,” Darcy corrects, as if it makes a difference.

Darcy might be wrong, but it’s Natasha in a good mood. She still has to mention an important detail. “I don’t recommend candy when you’re working out unless you’re marathoning.”

“Don’t worry, it’s just gallery snacks for Tony and Thor’s axe-throwing tournament.” Natasha comes to a stop in front of Darcy’s desk. “Want some?”

Darcy struggles for a bit, but accepts a piece of licorice in lieu of inquiring further. “Thank you.”

“What’re you shopping for?” Natasha asks, still on the opposite side of Darcy’s screen.

There’s really no point in trying to lie, so Darcy says as casually as she can, “Oh, you know, just soap.”

“A fancy soap kinda girl?”

“Everybody’s got their thing.”

Darcy’s a little embarrassed, but then Natasha divulges, “I got a motorbike. It’s fun.”

Darcy looks up from her laptop and presses her lips together. Goddamn intentional provocation. Goddamn malicious compliance. She crams more licorice into her mouth. “Good for you! I’m happy you found a relaxing activity.”

“I could take you out for a spin sometime,” Natasha suggests.

“I don’t really own the appropriate safety gear to go on high speed motorcycle rides, but thank you.”

Natasha’s smirk deepens and she looks like she wants to say something else, but seems to rein herself in. Instead, she picks up a picture frame on the desk.

“Who’s in the photo?”

“Oh, my great-grandma, my gran, my mom, and me. All of them are gone now. Well, except me. Still kickin’.”

Natasha looks at the photo more closely. “You look like them.”

“It’s our eyes,” Darcy says with pride. “I’ve also heard that about our teeth but I had braces when I was a kid, so that doesn’t really make sense.”

Natasha smiles down at her for a moment, then begins to walk away, business with Darcy apparently finished.

“You forgot your candy!”

“Nah, you keep it,” Natasha calls back without turning her head, disappearing behind Tony’s stupid water feature.

\--

“RICE,” Darcy yells, pouring a fifth cup of coffee for herself in the kitchen as the elevator dings. The team is finally back, and she’ll admit to being just a little bit anxious about nuclear submarines and artifacts in oceanic trenches.

So the Professional Boundaries in Therapeutic Relationships PowerPoint hasn’t quite prepared Darcy for a position at the Avengers Tower. It’s fine. It’s not her fault Tony calls her at ten at night about his pecs and needs her to remind him how to do that stretch with the tension band right at that second. She’s kind of indirectly helping save the world by keeping the world-savers in peak shape and pain-free. And if they’re kind of a bunch of a needy, rebellious toddlers, nobody heard it from her.

Steve is first in, limping ever so lightly.

She points to the items she has arranged in a neat grid on the counter. Cold packs, compression wraps, tiny pillows, painkillers, and pizza.

Steve goes for the pizza. In fact, he takes the entire box of Meat Lovers and goes to sit in the armchair in the corner before Tony even makes it through the door.

Darcy’s a little put out because Rest, Ice, Compression, and Elevation does not include pizza. Bruce takes one of the cold packs, but she can see from his tiny, ripped shorts and button-up crop top that he’s perfectly uninjured.

Natasha comes in last. Somebody’s gone and punched her in the face. There are the beginnings of a black eye as she comes to a stop in front of the single slice of slightly-dried-out Pepperoni.

Darcy hands her a cold pack. She goes to the fridge, very covertly takes her lunch out of the paper bag labelled ‘DARCY’, turns around and thumps it on the counter in front of Natasha.

“Voila, roast chicken dinner!”

“Darcy, I can’t—”

“You don’t have allergies, do you?”

“No—”

“I’ll heat it up for ya. Nobody’s in the beanbag over there.”

“Darcy—”

“You know, when I pull out my gran’s recipe for people they usually shut up and eat it.”

Natasha goes and sits in the beanbag chair. Darcy gets a fork out of the cutlery drawer and starts pouring the spy some juice. She makes sure chicken dinner is evenly hot before bringing everything over to Natasha on a tray. She thanks Darcy with a weird look on her face.

“I should get punched in the face more often,” says Tony through a mouthful of Hawaiian.

By the time Darcy wraps up Clint’s knee, makes Steve do his calf stretches, and finds Thor’s special massage ball for him, she’s learned that Natasha’s rather good at dodging forks. Rather agile in general. Everyone seems a bit too interested in Darcy’s lunch—now Natasha’s lunch—and Darcy won’t stand for it.

“If you guys all take a rest week with gentle activity, I’ll make you chicken dinner. All of you. Yes, even you, Tony. But I’m gonna use your credit card.”

One week after that fateful statement, Darcy’s at her desk doing algebraic equations. “One and a half chickens each is…”

“Nine,” a voice supplies helpfully. “That’s flattering, but I can’t eat one and a half chickens.”

“It’s the team average!”

Darcy taps the end of her pen on her chin. Natasha's standing in front of her desk in a sports bra and leggings with a small towel around her shoulders.

"How was your workout?" Darcy asks, completely normal and professional.

“Great.” Natasha’s smile is quick and loose. “I took it easy like you’ve been asking. I feel good.”

“And how’s the eye?”

“I can see with it, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I know you can see with it, I’m just asking how it feels.”

“Good, fine. Are you making mashed potatoes?”

“Mhmm. I hope nobody on the team’s lactose intolerant.”

Natasha looks slightly off into the distance and smirks. “Not at all.”

\--

After lunch on Sunday is when Darcy starts cooking. The team has been obligingly restful, at least when Darcy’s been around to see. Nobody’s dropped a deadlift that shakes the entire floor, the gym laundry pile grows slower than usual, and none of the gym mirrors have had to be replaced. Darcy takes it as a victory and borrows a hand truck to go grocery shopping.

She’s made gran’s chicken roast too many times to count, but never with nine chickens at once. So she puts on some Opeth, brews a pot of Earl Grey, and rolls up her sleeves.

The plan is mashed potatoes, gravy, stuffing, and green beans, and because there’s a limit to the amount of effort she’s able to put in, a veritable bucket of Neapolitan ice cream for dessert. Something for everyone.

The smell brings in the team before she even needs to start thinking about texting someone or getting on some sort of intercom system or sending a runner. Six packs of beer, assorted liquor, and bottles of wine appear along with them.

“I wore my stretchy pants for this special day,” Clint says, showing her his sweatpants before trying to stick a finger in the gravy.

Darcy keeps shooing Avengers out of the kitchen, until she figures out that she can get them set the table one plate at a time. Eventually, the entire dinner has made its way out to the dining area, and she’s alone in the kitchen with her moment of truth: participating in an actual sit-down dinner with the entire Avengers team at their dining room table with a panoramic view of the city and velvety soft high-backed chairs.

“First broken glass of the night and we haven’t even tucked in.” Natasha comes in reaching for the cupboards and finds Darcy scraping dried gravy off the kitchen island.

“Darce, what’re you doing? We’re waiting for you.”

“But I can—”

Natasha picks up Darcy’s hand delicately, then shoves a shot glass into it. “I never thought I’d be the one telling you this, but relax.”

An invigorating shot of vodka later, Darcy’s sat between two large men at an enormous table. But it’s really not that complicated.

“Darcy, this is amazing,” Steve says.

“A feast fit for gods,” comes Thor’s sparkling review. Clint slaps her back. The rest of the reviews come in the form of chewing noises and the occasional burp.

It’s easy to make conversation with Bruce about his science and keep an eye on the redhead across from her, contentedly interjecting herself into multiple conversations and shamelessly using distraction tactics to nab the last thigh.

When Darcy looks around the table and the food is gone and everyone is leaning back into their chairs, the part of her that is full and happy emerges in the form of a question.

“Ice cream?” Darcy asks the table brightly.

Tony drops his fork. “Movie night? Movie night.”

Things happen quickly from there. The boys bicker over John Wick and James Bond, and a steady supply line of alcohol, ice cream, popcorn, and clean bowls starts forming.

The living room is optimally set up for the team and maybe a plus one or two, and everyone obviously has their favourite seats. Darcy stands at the doorway, uncertain, until Natasha once again picks up Darcy’s hand and guides her over to a narrow but deep one-and-a-half seater. It’s clearly Natasha’s—there are red hairs on a few of the cushions, and the only throw in the room is draped over an arm.

They’re making hip and shoulder contact, but Natasha doesn’t appear to notice, elbow deep in the tub of Neapolitan that’s being passed around and heavily favouring the chocolate.

“What do you want,” Natasha says, already preparing a scoop of strawberry like she knows Darcy.

Thor’s coming around holding the entire liquor cabinet, topping everyone off and chuckling uproariously the way he does. He gets to them, pours Natasha a vodka soda wordlessly, and turns to Darcy with bottles clinking.

“Whatever has the highest sugar content,” Darcy decides.

“Ah, but she is sweet enough,” Thor comments, and begins pouring Darcy a straight glass of peach schnapps before Natasha saves her by adding ginger ale and brandy.

Thor moves on. Darcy settles in, juggling ice cream and booze.

“You never have to cook for us again,” Natasha says, soft enough for Darcy only, “but I’m glad you did. Thank you.”

“It was my pleasure,” Darcy replies, because that’s about all someone can say to something to like that.

Everyone finally settles down and Tony dims the lights. The pick of the night is _Octopussy_ , and Darcy has to snicker into her ice cream when she sees Steve’s face. It earns her an elbow from Natasha, but they’re close enough that she can feel Natasha shaking with her own silent laughter.

There’s plenty of commentary from the peanut gallery throughout, but Darcy doesn’t find herself the least bit bothered. The Avengers are their own kind of family, they’ve invited Darcy in for a spell.

A quarter way through, Natasha notices Darcy shrinking and says in a low voice, “They keep the temperature comfortable for five out of six Avengers, but we’ll pull through.” She spreads the throw out over both their laps.

If Darcy ends up tucked into Natasha’s side and experiencing something like Natasha playing with the ends of her hair, she doubtlessly dreams it.

\--

When Darcy wakes up, it’s to an empty room and weak, cloudy-but-not-raining sunlight filtering in through the windows. Someone, or a more than one person, has tried to clean, but there are still ice cream stains on the floor and empty bottles stowed behind an ottoman.

She lifts her hands to rub her eyes, but there’s a blanket on top of her and the corners are tucked into the couch. It takes her a moment to free herself. Gradually, she becomes aware of low conversation in the kitchen, accompanied by the smell of bacon.

“Good morning,” says Steve blithely when she walks in.

Darcy surveys the scene. Steve’s standing over the toaster stirring his coffee, and Natasha’s pushing bacon around on a pan, a bite into the buttered toast in her other hand. Between the two of them, there’s already a breakfast spread going.

“Right, none of you get hangovers.”

Natasha blinks. “It’s twelve o’clock.”

“Actually, I think everyone’s still in bed,” Steve says, scratching the back of his head. “Coffee or tea?”

“Crispy or soft?”

“Yes,” Darcy says.

Steve hands her mug of coffee. “You need this.”

Darcy drinks it black, a fog of sleep still pulled over her. She doesn’t realize how close she’s standing to Natasha, hugging her cardigan around her and leaning in like Natasha’s a heat source, until Natasha reaches around her for a plate. But Natasha doesn’t comment, hasn’t commented, just squeezes Darcy’s elbow and points with her chin at a high stool.

“ _GoldenEye_ is still the best,” Natasha opines suddenly, continuing whatever conversation Darcy had cut short.

“You’re only saying that because of the Bond girl,” Steve disagrees. “The best is _You Only Live Twice_.”

“I’m sorry, but that Bond is weird and does not deserve to live.”

“Is killing people with your thighs really cooler than a secret base in a volcano? You know what, forget I asked.”

Darcy drinks her coffee quietly and thinks the best is _From Russia with Love_ , but she certainly isn’t about to say that out loud.

Natasha slides a plate across the island to Darcy with impressive precision. It’s loaded with bacon, eggs, toast, and fried tomatoes, and Darcy instantly lights up.

“Nobody’s cooked me breakfast in a long time,” Darcy announces, digging in with gusto.

Natasha looks up from the sink. “That’s a shame.”

“You earned it,” Steve says. “You really know how to throw a dinner party.”

Darcy politely covers her full mouth. “I don’t think I threw it so much as I made some food and a lot happened after that.”

Clint makes an appearance and beelines for the bacon. “Did we kidnap Darcy and make her our personal chef?”

“No, because we value and respect her,” says Natasha.

“All I’m saying is, food happens when she’s around.” Clint chews thoughtfully. “Maybe I’ll take it up with Stark.”

“No, you won’t.”

“Maybe I will.”

Natasha puts down her coffee with a thump. “Let’s spar.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

Natasha leans over, picks up the pan of bacon, and walks out of the kitchen.

“Hey!” Clint starts after her.

Steve looks across the island and over the rim of his mug at Darcy with smiley eyes. Darcy decides she doesn’t know what’s going on and tucks back in.

\--

Early on, almost as soon as Darcy set up her workplace in the Avengers gym, Darcy had marched into Tony’s office and demanded a raise. There were bullet points involved and one of them is this: there’s no consistency in her workplace. Someone will see her eight Fridays in a row, then disappear from her schedule a week or a month at a time.

Sometimes that happens in a regular physiotherapist’s practice. But not with not all of their clients. And the bulk of their work is definitely not reworking undone progress, rehabilitating new and unusual injuries of mysterious origin, and having most of their advice ignored.

Darcy isn’t in the need-to-know category. Sometimes she gets details about missions, or none at all. Darcy works on her acceptance.

So when Natasha pops up a week and a half later asking, “Do massage chairs work?”

Darcy responds just as quickly, “You know, I’m also a RMT. Well, was, before I became a physiotherapist. But my certifications are still current.” She thinks about what she just said. “Um. I incorporate targeted therapy into my practice already, but if you want to book a whole appointment just for massage, I can do sports massages, deep tissue, myofascial release, trigger points...”

Darcy’s leaned into it less over the years, especially now that most of her clients need something like five-hundred-pounds of pressure. Darcy adapts to the times. Her last continuing education course was on teaching self-myofascial relief.

Natasha stands up a little straighter. “Has anyone else on the team asked for this?”

“Patient confidentiality,” Darcy says, although she thinks Natasha probably already knows the answer from her extracurricular reading. “I mean, I hand out foam rollers like candy. But if you have a problem area there’s nothing that can replace massage therapy. Is there a specific area that’s bugging you?”

“Can I have a foam roller?” Natasha says quickly.

“Yeah!” Darcy opens one of her cabinets and hands Natasha a plastic-wrapped roller and ball for good measure. “I could give you a couple tips and tricks if you tell me what the issue is.”

“That’s fine.” Natasha begins speed walking away. “But thanks.”

\--

The next morning, Darcy gets a good look when she jogs past Natasha in the lobby, dripping wet from the rain and hugging her extra-large travel mug.

“You totally pulled your groin,” Darcy whispers accusatorily in passing. She’s reasonably sure no one has hearing that super but she really cares about privacy. “Bye, I’m really late!”

Pepper has tension headaches. There are a lot of reasons why people get tension headaches, but in Pepper’s case, Darcy thinks it’s mostly because Tony. But she never gets mad when Darcy is late, even though her schedule is usually packed fuller than Darcy’s snack bag.

She’s performing soft tissue release on Pepper’s right trapezius when Pepper decides she’s blissed out enough to start saying mushy things.

“I just wanted to say that you’ve been an absolute blessing. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there’s been an enormous improvement in mood since you’ve started.”

Darcy ducks her head. “Good thing I went to a good school.”

“No, you’re the main variable in these outcomes. Not the techniques.”

It’s a high compliment, but all Darcy feels is a flush of a guilt and shame.

“What’s wrong?” Pepper demands, shoving Darcy’s hands aside to sit up.

“Sometimes,” she starts haltingly, in a small voice, “I feel like I’m blurring the boundaries between my professional and personal relationships working here. What if I’m not maintaining professional objectivity? What if I’m not doing my job as well as I could be because of that? There are standards of practice! Professional expectations for appropriate behaviour!”

Darcy’s ranting by the end, far more emotional than she planned to be. To her credit, Pepper is barely fazed.

“Do you think anyone in this building knows what a well-adjusted, normal, and healthy professional relationship looks like? Don’t worry about guidelines written by people who aren’t working for the Avengers. There’s no rulebook for someone in your position, and you’re doing phenomenally. I hope we can hang onto you for a long time.”

Darcy blubbers up. Natasha chooses that moment to walk into the gym. She sees Pepper, sees Darcy, and pops out an earbud.

“It’s fine,” Darcy says, heading for the stack of hand towels. “Pepper always makes me cry.”

“Darcy! I do not!” Pepper objects, laughing. Darcy’s laughing too, dabbing at her face.

But Natasha pulls closer, warm, concerned, in Darcy’s space and touching her elbow like it’s just them.

“You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m just crying because Pepper said some really nice things and I really needed to hear it.”

Natasha looks pensive, but Pepper interrupts.

“Okay, I’ve decided.”

“Hmm?”

“We’re going out for drinks tonight. We’re girls, and we can be friends.”

\--

That’s how Darcy ends up at girl’s night with Natasha, Pepper, and Helen Cho. Pepper takes them to a nice place with craft beer and tapas. Darcy puts on more makeup and a lower-cut dress than a platonic night with female friends calls for, but she doesn’t expect it’ll be an issue.

“If there’s alcohol and music I’m definitely going to wanna dance,” Darcy mentions, seeing the stage. Pepper’s reserved a nice roomy booth kitty-corner to it, where the lighting is warm and dim and the people-watching is choice.

“I don’t see why not,” Pepper says, looking up from her menu amusedly.

Pepper and Helen get fancy cocktails. Natasha asks for a bottle of a foreign ale. Darcy decides wine is a great idea, except she accidentally orders a bottle and not a glass, and everyone else seems disgusted by the fact it’s a dessert wine.

Darcy’s not mad about it, or the stuffed peppers, garlic shrimp, and spicy potatoes. The conversation flows, from funny work incidents to the best coffee in the city to of course, relationships. Helen’s sharing long-distance woes, Pepper’s complaining about Tony as always, and Natasha’s passed the baton to Darcy with, “No, nobody right now.”

All eyes are on her and Darcy’s saying, “I was kinda beat up over a guy for awhile but I think I’m finally doing okay.”

“What’s his name?”

“Where’s he live?”

“Ian, and across the country, thank you very much.”

Helen pats Darcy’s hand. “You’ll find someone new.”

“I don’t know,” Darcy says, and changes the subject.

By the time the waitress comes by asking if she’d like another bottle, Darcy’s toes are restless and she hops out of the booth. “I gotta dance!”

She wriggles her way to the front, bouncing out her excitement before she picks out the beat and settles out into a more coordinated wriggle. Sugar high and wine drunk, time passes by in a happy blur.

Someone brushes shoulders with her, and by some magic, when Darcy looks over, it’s not the tall bearded guy that’s been next to her for awhile, but a head of red curls and a well-tailored leather jacket she’d been admiring earlier.

“Hey,” Natasha leans in to say.

Darcy’s stunned. “Are you going to dance? With me?”

“If you want me to.”

“Yes. Sure. I mean, I’d like that.”

Darcy expects that they’ll watch the stage together, but Natasha’s facing her, and it would be rude not to face her too. It takes a little longer for her to be sure, but there’s also some strong eye contact happening. Natasha’s not looking away, and her eyes are really green with brown in the middle.

“You really should let me do some massage therapy on your groin,” Darcy whispers. “I can tell it’s bothering you.”

“Stop talking about work.”

Her eyebrows almost fly off her forehead when she feels Natasha’s hands slide around her waist, and she flutters her hands a little bit before deciding to put them on Natasha’s shoulders. It’s safe, totally safe.

“Don’t be embarrassed. I know you’re not one-hundred-percent comfortable with people you don’t really know—or people you know—touching you that much, but massage is medical treatment, and it can help with blood circulation, and insomnia, and—”

“Darcy,” Natasha says. It’s low, it’s throaty, very authoritative, and it shuts Darcy up. “I’ll let you do it. Just dance with me.”

“I like your lipstick,” Darcy says.

Natasha smirks. “Thanks. I like your dress.” She pulls Darcy closer, until they’re nearly front to front, and Darcy has to try not to breathe too hard because Natasha can feel her breathing.

Her entire world narrows down to Natasha’s eyes, Natasha’s lips, Natasha’s arms around her waist and the spicy-sweet smell of Natasha’s perfume, and Darcy’s pretty sure she can live there forever.

But it starts getting rowdy, it being a Friday night and past the time reasonable people have dinner. Darcy doesn’t notice the crush of people around them grow; her hands have ended up curled around the back of Natasha’s neck and Natasha’s hands have started covering more surface area than they were previously, but eventually someone bumps into her, and Natasha has to stop Darcy from knocking over a subwoofer.

“Home time,” Natasha says firmly, escorting Darcy out of the crowd.

Pepper and Helen are still the booth, pretty far gone, and have apparently given up on conversation in favour of giggling uncontrollably. Natasha collects them, closes out their tab, and they all pile into a cab outside.

The inebriated, nonsensical conversation continues until Helen’s dropped off. Natasha and Darcy aren’t quite there with Pepper and Helen, but go along with it. Natasha’s hand somehow ends up on Darcy’s knee when she laughs at something Darcy says and it stays there, seemingly forgotten by everyone except Darcy when the conversation moves on.

“We should do this again,” Pepper says from the passenger seat when the cab comes to a stop outside Darcy’s building.

Darcy reaches up to hold Pepper’s hand briefly. “We will. Drink lots of water before bed.”

“Good night,” Natasha says, squeezing Darcy’s knee before finally letting go.

Darcy climbs out into a cold, clear night. The cab waits for her to slip inside before pulling away.

\--

Darcy’s appointment system at the Avengers Tower is like this: it’s online, the link is private, everyone is able to book a time slot and fill out their name and add appointment details, and it appears as blocked off on her calendar.

Simple. Classic. Easy. There’s even an integrated messaging system so no one, in theory, needs to personally contact Darcy.

Everyone personally contacts Darcy.

Natasha texts Darcy at five in the morning and asks, “Massage at three?”

Darcy is stunned. Mostly because she hadn’t expected Natasha to take her up on her drunk insistence, and also because massage? Natasha?

Old binders full of notes make an appearance. Darcy closes the curtains and double checks them for opacity, sniffs all her oil blends twice to make sure they haven’t gone rancid, and makes and unmakes the sheets on the massage table. Preparing for massage therapy with Natasha positively does not take her all afternoon.

When Natasha shows up, on time to the minute, she’s as lackadaisical as ever and holding a to-go coffee cup.

“Undress to your level of comfort and get under the sheets on the table face down,” Darcy tells her, drawing the curtains. “I’ll be back in a jiff.”

She’s nervous, but it’s just because she hasn’t done this in awhile. Obviously. She listens to the sound of Clint on the other side of the gym, the rhythmic clank of a barbell against the cage. It’s familiar, and comforting.

Counting out five minutes and steeling herself, Darcy slips through the curtains. Natasha’s lying unassumingly under the sheets, and Darcy begins warming oil between her hands.

“I’m going to start with light strokes as a warm-up for a technique called petrissage, and that’s when you’re going to find the manipulation a bit deeper. Let me know if you find anything overly painful. Can you turn over for me?”

“Okay,” Natasha says, her voice and face a blank slate.

Darcy uncovers one of Natasha’s legs and tucks the edge of the sheet under the other. If Natasha has anything on underneath, Darcy’s going to be so meticulously careful that she will never know. She summons all the clinical detachment she can muster. She’s here to throw the textbook at pulled groins.

She’s stroking in the direction of blood flow from knee to groin with gradually increasing intensity when Natasha begins tensing up.

“Let’s switch legs,” Darcy suggests, covering the leg back up and starting over on the other one.

But soon enough, Natasha tenses up again. It’s a juncture when Darcy usually talks, and so she does. By the book.

“How’d this happen?”

“I was training,” Natasha says, staring up into the ceiling. “But I wasn’t thinking about training.”

“You’re tensing up again,” Darcy tells her gently. “What’s going on in your head when that happens?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is it a thought? A memory? Just a feeling?”

“It’s a lot of things.” There’s a long pause. “But mostly I’m angry. Sad.”

Darcy almost stops breathing. She forces herself to continue calmly kneading. “Where in your body do you feel that?”

“My core. And it kind of radiates out to my lower back. My hips.”

“What feels worse? The anger, the sadness or the pain?”

When Natasha answers the question, Darcy has to strain to hear it. “They’re the same. They’re there because of each other.”

Darcy says, “It’s okay.” She gently digs in, working the stiffness out along the front of Natasha’s hip. “Can you feel where my hands are? Your breathing is a little shallow when I touch you there. Breathe with me. On my count.”

Natasha’s quiet, but Darcy can feel her breathing grow more slow, deep, and complete. Little by little, Natasha stops fighting back, and her knots unravel under Darcy’s ministrations.

When she’s done, Darcy covers Natasha back up, a little afraid to look at her face. Instead, she takes a step back and says what she knows.

“Take as much time as you need to get dressed and take a few deep breaths before getting up. You might experience some light-headedness or dizziness. I’ll have water for you outside.”

Darcy gets on the other side of the curtains, pours out a glass of water, and drinks it. She pours another out for Natasha. Halfway through scratching notes into Natasha’s file, she looks up wondering what’s taking so long.

The curtains are open, and Natasha’s already gone.

\--

Darcy doesn’t see Natasha for a week.

At first, Darcy frets. She hopes she hasn’t done anything wrong, made Natasha feel poorly. But she runs the appointment through in her head enough times to know she hasn’t done anything she hasn’t done before, hasn’t asked questions she hasn’t asked before, hasn’t used techniques that she hasn’t used before.

Besides, whatever’s happening, it might be mission-related, and could well have nothing to do with Darcy.

She doesn’t ask about Natasha, of course. She doesn’t need to, because she’s putting kinesiology tape on Clint’s elbow when he breaks the silence.

“Nat’s been grumpy, has she seen you lately?”

“Can’t tell you that,” Darcy deadpans as best as she can, which is not very much.

“Right, but I’ll take that as a no.” Clint fiddles with the tape, lazily unconcerned. “Mmm, she’ll come around. Which way does this go?”

Worrying herself sick isn’t a thing. A couple days later, Darcy shows up to work snotty and sneezy. She’s gross, but she doesn’t think any of the Avengers are susceptible to the common cold. She only has one appointment with Thor, who probably eats Earth viruses for breakfast, and hunkers down to wait for the delivery of her new treatment table and backup treatment table.

Predictably, she falls asleep on the luxuriously soft sofa in the lounge. When she wakes up, Natasha’s standing over her holding a box of tea with a bear wearing pajamas on the front. It’s the best thing Darcy’s ever seen.

“I love tea,” Darcy says. She sits up.

“Good, I made you a cup.” A mug materializes in front of Darcy on the coffee table, steam still wafting off the top. “Keep the box. It’ll make you feel better.”

The tea is delicious, with notes of ginger and chamomile, but Darcy looks sidelong at Natasha. “Have you even been sick a day in your life?”

Natasha thinks about it. “Maybe. But I can’t remember the last time I was sick.”

“I don’t recommend it. Wow, I’m so nasally. What time is it?”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” says Natasha dismissively. “I signed for your tables. I’ll ask Steve to carry them up tomorrow.”

“Oh. Thanks.” Darcy sips her tea quietly. Natasha sits next to her and does something on her phone.

Eventually, Darcy gathers her thoughts. “No really, what time is it? I’ve got Tony first thing tomorrow. And he’s got a big CEO meeting after.” She starts casting about for her own phone, and Natasha pulls it out from between two couch cushions.

“I’ll drive you home.”

“I can call a cab.”

“I’m driving you home,” Natasha says, giving Darcy the scary eyes.

A stop to retrieve Darcy’s purse and coat later, they take the elevator down to the garage, where Darcy’s forgotten an important detail: Natasha’s ride is a motorbike.

“It was all a ruse!” Darcy points at Natasha accusingly. “Do you know how many motorcycle injuries I’ve seen?”

“I would never put you in danger.” Natasha looks very sincere. “Do you trust me?”

“These better not be my final words,” Darcy grumps, taking the helmet being offered, “but if they are, let it be known that I said I told you so.”

“Duly noted,” Natasha says, clearly holding in laughter at her. “Ground rules. Keep your feet on the footpegs at all times, don’t touch the exhaust system, and mount and dismount on the left.”

She mounts the bike in one smooth movement, and signals for Darcy to get on behind her. Because Darcy isn’t completely a klutz, she manages to get on with only a few false starts.

“Hold me tighter.” Natasha grabs Darcy’s weird floating hands and puts them firmly around her waist. “Can you feel me? Just lean when I lean, do what I do. Don’t think too much.”

“Okay, hang on, hang on.”

Natasha waits patiently for Darcy to get comfortable. When Darcy finally signals her readiness and the bike growls to life under them, Natasha has to reach down one more time to adjust Darcy’s death grip.

Tony’s garage door opens for them by the mechanism of some hidden sensor. Natasha does a slow donut outside the garage, burning rubber in a perfect circle before accelerating firm and smooth onto the street. Darcy’s last words turn out to actually be, “Oh shit!”

They don’t take the direct route to Darcy’s place. Natasha goes fast, but so steady, and Darcy’s torn between squeezing her eyes shut and taking in as much as she can. Finally, at the top of a climb, the bike decelerates to a gentle stop.

Holding steady, Natasha reaches back and taps Darcy on the leg. Darcy clambers off, and in a fluid sequence, Natasha lets the kickstand down before dismounting and removing her helmet with a toss of hair.

“You doing okay?”

“Just like riding with a nun!” Darcy grits out, remembering her helmet.

Natasha snickers. “You’re going to go home and pass right out after the adrenaline wears off. You’re welcome.”

“Uh, no. Do you know what happens to the human body after an adrenaline rush?”

“Pretty well, actually, but I’m sure I won’t describe it the way you would.” Natasha serenely pats the spot next to her. “It won’t fall over.”

Sighing, she leans back against the bike next to Natasha. They’re at the top of an outlook Darcy’s never been to before, all of the city glittering under them and the Avengers Tower rising out of the noise like a beacon.

“Darcy. I have a physiotherapy question.”

“Shoot,” Darcy responds easily, happy to be in charted territory.

“How is it that I can be in pain when there’s nothing physically wrong with me?”

Darcy sucks in a breath. “Well, a lot of invisible processes are happening, especially if there’s trauma. There’s the creation of a new normal I’ve told you about. There’s also a disassociation that can happen. Someone can disassociate traumatic memory from feelings and from their body. Not to mention when traumatic stress is in the body, and it can do things like weaken your immune system, cause illness, and even pain because stress constricts blood vessels and reduces blood flow and that cascades into a bunch of different things like muscle tension.” Darcy takes another breath and nods. “Not saying that’s actually what’s happening for you personally. I just have studies.”

“Do you read off a script in your head?”

“What?”

“I’m sorry, but you’re just not nearly as,” Natasha bobs her head apologetically, “polished when you’re off the clock.”

Darcy shrugs, not at all bothered. “Everybody’s got their work persona. Darcy the physiotherapist is definitely made up of lots of textbooks and years of experience and has polish I don’t actually have. But that doesn’t mean I don’t mean what I say, that I don’t care or I’m reading off a page for you.”

“I know you care.”

“Good. I don’t usually have answers when it’s not physio-related, but I’m here all the same.”

Natasha clicks her mouth, considering something. “Sometimes I feel like I’m just performing what was on the script.” She’s not making eye contact. “I know what comes next, what to say, how to look. Even when I’m not working, when I’m just trying to be a person.” 

Darcy studies the side of her face, the shape of her mouth, the curve of her eyelashes. “I bet there’s not a lot you don’t have a script for.” 

Natasha looks up sharply, huffing out a laugh. “No.” 

“I think,” Darcy begins, shy, but Natasha’s squared up with her now, “nothing ever goes perfectly. I might treat the same injury dozens of times, but it’s a different person every time. So you might have a script too, but it’s never the same play twice. Every little improvisation you do, that’s where you are.” 

It might be a trick of the light, but Natasha’s looking at her lips. Whether the moment lasts a second or a minute, Darcy can’t be sure, but then Natasha’s standing and stretching out her tension, which Darcy can only encourage. 

They get back on the road, and this time, Natasha takes Darcy straight home. Natasha double parks without a care and flips up the visor of her helmet, offering Darcy a wink in place of a goodbye. Darcy finds it perfectly acceptable. And not that Darcy will ever share this particular tidbit of information, but Natasha is right. 

She’s out like a light. 

\--

“Push your chest out more,” Darcy’s telling Steve when Natasha steps out of the pool room in a bikini and a towel wrapped around her hips, texting.

“Oh, hey Darcy, icicle,” Natasha greets them when she looks up. Darcy takes her hands off Steve’s chest.

“I thought Banner puked in the hot pool,” says Steve.

Natasha’s poking around in the mini fridge by the change rooms, reading the ingredients on a bottle of green juice suspiciously. “No, that was last week. And I didn’t get in the hot pool.”

“Is Bruce okay?”

Steve and Natasha look at Darcy like she’s a particularly precious baby.

“You’re a treat,” Natasha says, uncapping a bottle of water. “’Kay, I’m going to take over the sauna. Keep out.”

Darcy stares after her, mind pleasantly empty, then remembers she’s supposed to be doing something with Steve. He’s smiling at her like he knows something she doesn’t.

“Shut up, Steve,” Darcy says.

\--

“Darcy, you’re staying in the guestroom for the next week,” Tony says very businesslike one morning, before Darcy’s even hung up her coat.

Darcy stutters for a few seconds before she squeezes out, “Pardon?”

“You understand that you know where we’re physically vulnerable and that information, to the right person, is worth killing for.”

“What? I’ve never thought of it that way.”

“Yeah, we’ve got some bad people you don’t need to worry about sniffing around town. We’ll take care of it, just don’t leave.”

“But I don’t have anything packed.”

“Give me your keys and a list. I’ll send someone.”

“I don’t know how I feel about someone I don’t know digging through my underwear drawer.”

“How about Natasha?”

“No, do not send Natasha!”

“How about me?”

“Just take the damn keys.”

“O-kay,” Tony says, plucking the keys from Darcy’s hand. She narrows her eyes at him.

“Have you been watching me the whole time I’ve been working here?”

“Keeping on eye you is not watching,” Tony scoffs. “It’s a paid vacation, just take it.”

\--

It’s not as if Darcy has much of a choice about taking it.

She doesn’t even see much of anyone at first. It’s as if all of her roommates have normal, busy lives except her. Which is true. She’s lonely the second day in, making a cocoon of blankets in the room with the biggest TV and watching reruns for the better part of the day.

It’s nearly midnight when a ding resonates from the elevator bank. She glimpses Natasha stalking down the hallway looking stormy, and twenty minutes later, Tony going the same way while sulkily texting.

Darcy prudently decides to stay where she is.

Staying at the tower is like staying on a stationary cruise ship with no ports of call. Darcy goes a little stir crazy. She misses her morning runs, the café down the street, even her neighbour’s annoying, barky Pomeranian.

On the third day, Darcy raids the liquor cabinet and ends up on the helipad. She’s wishing she’d remembered to bring snacks when she hears someone join her.

“You’re not here to save me from the snipers, are you?” Darcy calls out, until she sees it’s Natasha carrying a bottle of Riesling and two glasses.

“This is the sweetest white I can handle. Does it pass quality control?”

Darcy puts down her cider and makes grabby hands. “That definitely wasn’t in the stash.”

Natasha’s eyes crease. “Let’s be clear. There are no snipers. Tony can be a bit paranoid sometimes and I’m not worried about it.”

“Okay then. Let’s drink.”

“You were drinking before I got here, but I won’t nitpick.”

“This is basically the equivalent of Tony locking me in his attic,” Darcy says laughingly. “Just let me cope.”

Tilting her head in acknowledgement, Natasha swirls her glass contemplatively. “I’ll admit I thought you were massive flaw in our security. I didn’t understand why Tony kept you around at first.”

“I’ll go ahead and assume you changed your mind,” Darcy says, when no more is forthcoming.

“No, I’m still waiting to be clued in.” Natasha bumps her shoulder against Darcy’s, smirking.

“I don’t know, I’m pretty sure your legs were about to fall off when you walked into my office.”

“You don’t have an office.”

Darcy’s pretty fixated on Natasha when Steve interrupts, holding a portable grill in one hand and a cooler in the other.

“Um. Hi,” Darcy says, a mite peeved.

“Oh, hey guys. I’ve got enough steaks for everyone.”

Steve and Natasha barbequing on the helipad doesn’t seem like a common occurrence, but Darcy doesn’t know enough about the subject to question it. She looks back at Natasha for direction and gets a mild headshake for her efforts.

“Want a glass?” Darcy asks instead.

Steve doesn’t look terribly interested in what they have, but he accepts what’s offered politely.

Natasha pokes her head out from next to Darcy. “Mine better not still be mooing.”

“Trust issues.” Steve clicks the tongs at Natasha and lights the grill.

“So, Steve,” Darcy begins again in the ensuing silence, “what kind of music do you like?”

It’s a nice enough, if oddly normal evening in the company of two people whom Darcy isn’t sure of the exact nature of her relationship to, swapping playlists while a small column of meat-flavoured smoke billows into the air.

“I don’t know if Tony asked any of you before saddling you with me,” Darcy says later, nudging burnt bits around her plate. “In which case, I’m sorry to be the guest nobody invited.”

“What? You’re family, Darce.” Steve crumples up his paper plate. “I think you’re well past the point where we’re just your job.”

“Welcome to Stark’s collect-em-all,” Natasha says dryly. “We’re nobody’s first family, but it’s the one you get.”

“Amen to that,” Steve says, and shuts the grill door.

Steve departs with a jaunty salute, and it’s just them again. Natasha watches him leave, a little solemn.

“He gets a little lonely sometimes. Wants to be reminded of a different time.”

“Steve’s not who I wonder about,” Darcy says slowly.

“So ask.”

Natasha’s looking away into the tail end of the sunset, already a little distant, and Darcy finds herself weighing her words thoroughly.

“I only care about what you want to tell.”

“All I have to say about my past is, I have to balance my books. And the only way that’s happening is if I look forward.”

“Then I’ll look forward with you,” Darcy concludes simply.

Natasha finally looks at her, half-gold in the sunset.

“We should go back inside,” she says, not unkindly.

Natasha walks her to the guestroom, leans on the doorframe and watches Darcy fiddle with her sleeves. A little conscious of the empty but public hallway around them, Darcy reaches out and warms her cold fingers on Natasha’s forearm.

“Thanks for taking out the snipers.”

Natasha smiles. There’s a flash of teeth. “Anytime.”

She doesn’t seem liable to go anywhere, and Darcy’s vibrating when she opens the door and brings Natasha in with her.

\--

Darcy gets a little more company after that. Clint spots her squat. Bruce shows her how to work the ice cream maker. Natasha shows up at her room at night and starts undressing Darcy as soon as the door closes.

It’s always Darcy’s room, and Natasha’s never there when she wakes up, other than the stray pillow that somehow gets abandoned on Darcy’s side of the bed every time.

But when Natasha laps her on her morning treadmill runs, it’s normal. When they bump into each other in the kitchen, it’s normal. When Natasha sits down to watch a movie with her, only movie-watching happens.

The point is, Darcy doesn’t quite get around to talking to Natasha about it, and neither does Natasha.

On the sixth day, they’re raiding the fridge when Tony pops his head in.

“False alarm. They were after one of my prototypes. So corporate espionage, not the murdery kind.” Tony makes a shooing motion at her. “Go home. I’ll wipe out your student loans.”

Darcy watches Tony go and slowly swivels back to Natasha.

“He apologized,” Natasha shrugs.

“How much head cracking was happening while I’ve been, uh, vacationing?”

“By me? Only a little. By Tony? A significant amount.”

Darcy decides she doesn’t need to know that much about the alleged head cracking that’s taken place. “Well, I gotta integrate back into society so I’m gonna go buy greasy take-out.” She takes a long look at Natasha and misses her already. “Wanna come?”

It’s kind of like a date. They end up at Darcy’s favourite all-day-breakfast diner, laughing over milkshakes and burgers as Darcy pulls up photos on her phone of her as a child wearing spaghetti as a face mask. Natasha regales her with stories of her constant rule-breaking in her early days at SHIELD, which seems about as far back as she’s willing to go, but Darcy delights in what she gets. They fight briefly over the bill, but Natasha wins easily.

Darcy pulls Natasha into a chocolatier on the walk back, still not ready for another goodbye.

“My gran always said, if you don’t know what to get somebody, everybody’s gotta eat. My favourite thing to do with her as kid was buy a box of chocolates and play chocolate-roulette,” Darcy explains. “Pick one with me.”

They end up with a seasonal box of chocolates, and she waves Natasha off with, “You got dinner, let me get this for you.”

Darcy drops the chart and the lid in the bin on the way out. They walk down the street together, arms brushing, scrutinizing the neat little shapes in the box as serious can be.

“You first,” Darcy offers, then groans when Natasha takes her first pick.

“It’s yours if you want it.”

Natasha holds out the maple meltie with a bite out of it, obviously being just a little bit cheeky, but Darcy eats it off her fingers with a vengeance. That wins her a complicated expression from Natasha, but Darcy is almost certain there’s interest in it.

It’s lot of new information for Darcy to file away. Natasha likes mint, caramel, and peanut butter and is less impressed by coconut and citruses. She likes chocolate just as much, if not more than Darcy, which is no small miracle. And, she probably cheats at everything.

Natasha chases her down with last piece they’ve both been avoiding, because Darcy thinks it might be grapefruit, and Natasha has picked up on it somehow. Darcy does her sprints, so she likes to think Natasha only catches up because they’re back at the tower.

“You’re not getting out of your turn,” Natasha says, cornering her with a sparkly chocolate heart.

“Geez, okay, dungeon master.”

Darcy takes a tiny nibble. Definitely grapefruit. It seems to appease Natasha, so she puts it back in the box, and the box goes in the garbage.

“Wanna go for a ride?” Natasha asks, colour high on her cheeks.

“If you’re the one driving the bike,” Darcy says with a smile, “no matter where it goes, I’ll be on it.”

It’s a lot smoother the second time around. Natasha picks a hill ride this time, every descent making Darcy’s stomach swoop, but in a good way: all of the roller coaster ride without the nausea.

They end up back at the outlook, and there’s still a shaky anticipation bouncing around in Darcy’s stomach that makes the city lights blur together no matter how hard she looks at them.

“Are you cold? We can head back.”

“No, I’ll live,” Darcy maintains.

“Don’t be stubborn,” Natasha says, stepping around and in front of Darcy.

Darcy uncrosses her arms, confused, but Natasha commandeers them instead, pulling them into the warm space between her jacket and her body.

That doesn’t really leave anywhere for Natasha to put her hands except on the bike on either side of Darcy, and then it’s all over.

She watches Natasha’s lips part just a little bit, feels the side of Natasha’s nose brush against hers, and her breath catches. It’s a bit of a tease, so Darcy returns the favour, finding the hem of Natasha’s shirt by touch and splaying her hands over the hot skin underneath.

The kiss she gets has frustrated teeth in it, just a little pain that makes Darcy jerk up and gasp.

It’s so much, so fast. She’s raking her fingernails over Natasha’s ribs and there’s a mouth on her neck and hands dipping under her waistband, she’s making little noises and movements she can’t control, and Natasha’s whispering approving nothings when her fingers finally go where Darcy wants them.

A sudden bright light on the insides of her eyelids jars Darcy awake from what feels like a fantasy, but Natasha’s discreetly buttoning her jeans back up as a carful of loud teenagers join them on the outlook, whistling out their windows.

“Hey lovebirds!”

“Get a room!”

With an undecipherable look at Darcy, Natasha backs out of her space and pulls her helmet back on. All Darcy can do is follow her lead. Natasha revs up without so much of a glance at the other car, and throttles it out of the clearing in way that tells Darcy she’s been getting nice biker Natasha all this time.

It’s hard to hide pressed up against someone. Darcy’s shifting uncomfortably on the pillion and Natasha may as well be made of stone. She doesn’t so much as twitch when Darcy dismounts in front of her building, offering up only a casual three-fingered wave before gunning it back out.

She has the courtesy to wait until Darcy’s in the door, but somehow, the gesture just piques Darcy that much more.

\--

Unfinished business isn’t Darcy’s favourite.

There’s been a lot of it with Natasha, and Darcy’s frustration makes her brave, and sometimes stupid. So when the subject of Darcy’s many cogitations doesn’t find Darcy, Darcy finds her.

Darcy’s sure it’s going to be a defining moment in her life when she knocks on Natasha’s door. But then Natasha opens the door, an obnoxiously neutral expression plastered on her face, and it’s off to the races.

"I want you to know that I might be crying right now but I'm actually, really mad. You’re saying and doing all these things and I don’t know if you mean them but they mean something to me because I have feelings for you. Really wonderful, intense feelings. I think you’re stupendous. Like, you actually make me stupid, because I just crossed a million professional boundaries. So you if you want a new physiotherapist, you should tell Tony and work that out.”

Natasha stares. Darcy rubs the back of her arm over her face roughly and tries to stop crying.

“I’ll let you think about it,” she finishes, and marches herself down to her open plan gym corner office situation.

But three days later, Natasha shows up for an appointment pretending like everything is normal and that Darcy doesn’t have these big, unwieldy feelings.

She’s early, she says hello, and she sips from her paper coffee cup and texts in complete silence while Darcy finishes preparing.

Some of her exercises need to be updated, and Darcy teaches her a psoas stretch and other modifications. Natasha picks them up quickly, with a bare minimum of instruction needed.

It’s the most by-the-book, impersonal, and to the point appointment Darcy has ever had.

She takes Darcy’s handout, murmurs a thank you, and turns to go. That’s when Darcy finally, finally has enough.

"What if I don't want to be your physiotherapist anymore?" Darcy blurts, knowing that her eyes are big, shiny, and wobbly but unable to do a single thing about it.  
  
Natasha just stares at her. "Okay," she says blandly, and slips away.  
  
\--

Thanks to Tony Stark, Darcy has a nice apartment. Sometimes she misses the old townhouse with five roommates, three cats, and two bathrooms, because it’s nice to have someone to sit down to dinner with and talk about the day. Then she takes an hour long bath, and doesn’t miss it.

She’d bought the place picturing of all the dinner parties she’d be having on the rooftop patio, movie nights in front of a big OLED TV, loud and laughing pre-drinking sessions with food and bottles and butts scattered across all the surfaces of her apartment.

In fact, Darcy hasn’t done any pre-drinking since she moved in. She just drinks, moderately and not every day, then goes to bed. And she doesn’t actually have people over that often. Physiotherapy is emotionally, mentally, and physically draining, especially when she’s fallen for a pigheaded patient who also defends Earth sometimes and _it’s complicated._

So there she is, wearing her bathrobe and gloomily watching her bowl of ice cream melt when there’s a knock on door. Nobody’s buzzed her, so Darcy looks through the peephole and it’s the cause of her moping.

Natasha does her stupid spy thing and says, “Darcy, I know you’re home. Just open the door.”

“Open it your damn self,” Darcy says petulantly.

“No, because you’re allowed to not want me here.”

Sighing aggrievedly, Darcy opens the door. Goddamn reverse psychology.

It seems to take Natasha a second to remember where Darcy’s face is. Darcy’s face, feeling all sorts of raw and tight.

“I’m sorry,” Natasha says. “I’ve been wrong.”

“That’s more honesty than I was expecting.” Darcy opens the door wider. Natasha slips by her, leather and smoke.

“There’s never been a point in trying anything with you. Not when you already know too much about me and you’re so adamant on fixing it.”

“For the record, it’s the duty of care, not fixing. I don’t actually think I can fix anyone. That’s unhealthy and unrealistic. I just—help.”

“You’ve done a lot more than help,” Natasha says carefully.

Darcy takes a steadying breath, letting it all go for the moment. “So what happened?”

“I thought it didn’t mean anything personal to you because it’s you being who you are and doing your job, and you’re fucking excellent at both of those.”

“And after you figured out it was personal?”

“I knew you were interested, but you were being so stubborn about being professional. I thought I could get you to admit it. I didn’t think it’d come across as a game. I think I’ve been the dog chasing after the cat with no plan for what I’d do if I got it.”

“I’m perfectly capable of doing my job and falling head over heels for you,” Darcy says. “Even if the manual says it can’t happen.”

“What’s the manual say about Russian spies with too much history?”

“That they deserve the same standard of care as anybody else.”

"You don’t know. I've done awful things, things you wouldn’t even be able to make up.”

"You haven't done anything awful to me. I mean, you did, but you apologized, so I think we can be friends again. Or more, if you want.” Darcy bites her lip.

“You’re just too damn _good_ ,” Natasha says.

When Natasha finally kisses her, there’s a lot Darcy wants to say after.

After Natasha starts using her tongue and Darcy has to walk her backwards into her bedroom.

After Darcy arches so high off the bed she’s sure she’ll need her spine adjusted.

After she finds the spot that makes Natasha pull her impossibly closer, harder, deeper.

After they’re lying in bed together, giggling, and untangling the sheets together.

But in the end, it’s good.

More than good enough.


End file.
